


Tikkun Olam

by Classpectanon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Jewish Rose Lalonde, Judaism, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:04:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21840958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Classpectanon/pseuds/Classpectanon
Summary: Or: A Woman Grapples both Faith and Death
Relationships: Rose Lalonde & Dirk Strider
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	Tikkun Olam

This place was always cold.

Dirk's grave lay unmarked in its yard, save for a small, upright stick planted at just the right angle that it was easily visible, should you know what to look for. A small scrap of orange cloth fluttered in the chill Autumn wind. Rose had been informed that it was some reference to an "obscure anime from your time". She never bothered to do the research.

She came, prepared, earmuffs and a yarmulke, for the weather. If it were nicer out, she would be wearing a suit, but it was not, and thus, heavy padding was called for.

ROSE: Hi, Dirk.  
ROSE: I hope your slumber is both fruitful and compelling.  
ROSE: Normally, I'd have a long, rambling soliloquy prepared, as if speaking to your spirit, hoping you could hear and approve from somewhere beyond this immortal coil.

Her voice is creaky, unused to speaking in the way it is. The cold air bites at her nostrils with every inhale, singing them with icy heat. Her breaths are deep, but not even.

ROSE: I'm sorry we... let this happen.  
ROSE: I know this is from Roxy's side of the genetic morass, and not even necessarily the Roxy you and I are intimately familiar with, but I did find this among the remnants of the Lalonde Estate.

She pulls out an annotated Torah, pages yellowed, pink ink faded in loopy, swirling letters.

ROSE: As you could imagine, the literature regarding whether or not such desecration of a "holy text" is a bit sparse, considering that I may be the last Jew in Paradox Space.

Rose leafs through the pages, one at a time, looking through years of dog-eared, bent bookmark reminders, interspersed with her own bookmarks. Each one is put with great care not to crinkle the already dilapidated pages. When she speaks, she talks as if she is calling out to someone who is not there.

ROSE: "Say not in grief: "He is no more", but live in thankfulness that he was. A death is not the extinguishing of the light, but the putting out of a lamp, because the dawn has come."  
ROSE: Or some similar platitudes. I'm sure you'd be laughing at the sentimentality of it.

She kneels down just a bit, gentle and quiet. Her eyes are red and tired, despite how early in the morning it is.

ROSE: I'm not sure if you'd find my acquisition of a dead language charming or tired.  
ROSE: Wherever you are, I hope, sincerely in the way that only a goddess of probabilistic visions can be, that my words reach you well.

When she chants, it is not a thing of beauty. Nor is it a thing of haunting sorrow. She was never one with predilection towards singing. Her voice cracks several dozen times. Her nose begins to leak a little bit, but she is too caught up in her own words to notice. There is no rhythm or cadence to the words, and any pitch is purely incidental.

ROSE: Al molay rachamim, shochayn bam’romim, ham-tzay m’nucha n’chona al kanfay Hash’china, b’ma-alot k’doshim ut-horim k’zo-har haraki-a mazhirim, et nishmat Dirk she-halach l-olama, ba-avur shenodvu tz’dakah b’ad hazkarat nishmata.  
ROSE: B’Gan Ayden t’hay m’nuchata; la-chayn Ba-al Harachamim yas-tire-ha b’sayter k’nafav l’olamim, v’yitz-ror bitz-ror hacha-yim et nishmatah, Ado-nay Hu na-chalatah, v’tanu-ach b’shalom al mishkavah.  
ROSE: V’nomar...  
ROSE: Amen.  
ROSE: Apologies for mangled pronunciations. Like I said, tutoring myself hasn't been particularly easy.  
ROSE: I would've used the Mourner's Kaddish but it makes too many references to a nonexistent country.

She sniffles, wipes her nose on her jacket sleeve, and laughs. If she is crying, her face has yet to reveal it, nor has her voice.

ROSE: Sleep well.

Leaving a small, round stone at the foot of the grave's marker, she shuts the book, returns it to its place inside her oversized pockets, turns around, and starts to walk away.

**Author's Note:**

> All comments, kudos, bookmarks, and views are seen, noted, and greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading.
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/classpectanon)  
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> 
> Translation of Rose's prayer is available in the comments below.


End file.
